


The Stranger at the Bus Stop

by AliciaSinCiudad



Series: Tumblr-prompt stand-alones [9]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: (No.), AU: Earth, Anyway at least he didn't destroy a giant mural by Diego Rivera, Are you still reading the tags?, Bodhi is AU normal Earth grad student Bodhi, Bus Stops, But just so's you know, CW: reference to anti-Asian racism, Cassian is Cassian but he's trying so hard to seem like he's from Earth, He hired spies to watch his employees to make sure they acted sufficiently Americanized, Henry Ford was a jerk, M/M, Rated teen for references to drug use, Rockefeller was also a jerk, That doesn't figure into the story at all, Trust me; I am not encouraging it, grad school, is it working?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliciaSinCiudad/pseuds/AliciaSinCiudad
Summary: Bodhi Rook is just your average grad student, waiting for a bus to meet up with an old professor. Only, he forgot to bring a book with him, so he is forced to stare at the gorgeous, if a bit odd, stranger at the bus stop. It turns out the stranger is even odder than he bargained for. As is everything else.





	The Stranger at the Bus Stop

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: Reference to anti-Asian racism.
> 
> Note about Cassian's characterization: If it seems like he is speaking in a strangely stereotypical, and also just plain strange, way, it's because he's meant to be trying, and failing miserably, to fit in to Earth Human Culture.
> 
> Inspired by the prompt on the OTP-isms tumblr:  
> OTP Idea #221  
> Imagine your OTP stuck waiting at a bus stop for their bus together.
> 
> And also inspired a comment my friend made about Saw Gerrera, wondering exactly what it is he's inhaling from that mask.

Growing up in England, Bodhi had always thought that the worst thing was being stuck waiting for a bus in the rain. It turned out he was wrong. The worst thing was being stuck waiting for a bus in the muggy Midwest heat (who knew it could actually get hot in the Midwest?) where the wait was always roughly forever, because Henry Ford and his spiritual descendants had made sure the public transit system around here would be forever fucked.

Also, he had thought that the worst was waiting alone, without a book. It was not. The worst was waiting without a book, with a stranger, who _did_ have a book.

Bodhi knew what it meant when someone was reading at a bus stop. Or anywhere in public. He was not going to be the book equivalent of That Guy Who Bothers Women Wearing Headphones. Even if the stranger, of whatever gender, was incredibly attractive. ( _Especially_ if the stranger was incredibly attractive, Bodhi reminded himself. This guy probably got unwelcome conversation all the damn time.) And even if the book was  The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

What struck Bodhi was how the stranger never cracked a smile. How was it possible to read The Hitchhiker’s Guide without laughing out loud, or at least snorting once or twice? This man seemed to be studying it like a textbook.

Suddenly, the stranger looked up, just as Bodhi happened to be staring at him. (Let’s be honest, Bodhi had nothing else to do, and the man was attractive – there was no moment the man could have looked up and _not_ caught Bodhi staring at him.) Bodhi blushed and started to look away, but gave up half-way through, and tried an awkward smile.

“So, um, what bus are you waiting for?” he asked, because he was just amazing at conversation openers.

“The number twelve. You?”

“The green one.”

“The green one?”

“Um. Like the green space ships. That Ford Prefect was waiting for.”

“Oh. Right. Ha.” The man actually said ‘ha’ out loud, as though trying to convey _I know you are trying to be funny, but you are failing so miserably that I can’t even fake a laugh._ An awkward silence descended upon them.

“Actually, I’m waiting for the number twelve, too.”

“I figured. It’s the only bus that stops here.”

“Right you are.” _Right you are? That’s two strikes, Bodhi._ When had Bodhi started thinking in baseball metaphors? This country was getting to him.

“New around here?” the man asked.

“Yeah, I just moved here a couple weeks ago.” And here it came…

“Oh, where are you from?”

“England.” And the inevitable follow-up…

“London? Or… what’s the other one? Liverpool?”

Bodhi laughed, only half in relief that the man hadn’t asked _But where are you **really** from?_ “There are actually more than two cities in England. But no, I am not a Beatle, and I _am_ from London.”

“So… a lot of fog?”

“Yeah. Lots of rain, lots of humidity, but not as humid as here.”

“I hear the winters here are awful, too.”

“You hear?”

“I just arrived a few months ago, myself. It actually snowed once in April. It never snows where I’m from.”

“Oh. Wh-where are you from?” The question came awkwardly from Bodhi’s mouth – he was so used to hearing it as a way to say _You don’t belong here_ that he had trouble asking it genuinely.

“Mexico. Mexico City. This was the first time I ever experienced snow, although I’ve heard it snowed once in my city in 1967. About twenty people died of hypothermia.”

“So this weather is nice for you?”

“I’m not used to the humidity, but it’s not so terrible. Actually, I got sick last month from all the air conditioning at my work. I don’t think my colleagues would do very well in De Efe.”

“In what?”

“Sorry, in Mexico City. We call it DF, Distrito Federal.”

“Ah. Anyway, I hear what you're saying. I think American air conditioning is half the reason we even have global warming in the first place. It’s a vicious cycle.” Bodhi paused, realizing that _American_ included Mexico. “I mean, North American air conditioning. I mean…”

“I get it. There isn’t a good word for it in English.”

“Gringo air conditioning? Am I allowed to say that?”

The man actually cracked a smile. _So I’m funnier than Douglas Adams,_ Bodhi thought. “I’m not a spokesman for all Latin Americans,” the man replied, “but if you’re not allowed, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Oh good, I’d hate to be deported for cultural appropriation. I mean, if they’re going to deport me, it might as well be for something good. Like terrorism, or drug trafficking, or insulting the president’s hair.”

“Hey, don’t even joke about that. I had a colleague who made a comment about Trump’s hair, and the next thing you know, he was deported to Mexico. He’s actually Cuban, but the Migra couldn’t tell the difference.”

“The… Migra.”

“Immigration.”

“Ah.”

“Also, I was joking.”

“Oh! Ha!” And now Bodhi was the one saying ‘ha’ out loud. “So where do you work, anyway?”

Something imperceptible changed in the man’s demeanor. Bodhi couldn’t quite describe it. It was as though something had just been shut off, although he couldn’t name a single body part that had moved.

“I work at the University.”

Bodhi decided to leave it there. “Interesting. I’m starting a PhD there right now. Well, starting… I mean, I started my PhD a year ago, at O_______ University, if I’m allowed to say that name out loud, but I defected.”

“Defected?”

“Transferred. But they’re such bitter rivals, I feel like I defected from one country to another.”

“Are they? I hadn’t picked up on that.”

“You will once football season starts.”

“It’s football season now.”

“I mean American football. I mean…”

“I know what you mean. The really boring sport where they don’t actually touch the foot to the ball.”

“They do occasionally. But not enough to merit the name. I think it’s just their way of showing the world they can do whatever they want. Like, _We don’t have a real name for our country or our people, we use words wrong, and we use the Imperial system even after the Empire switched to metric. What are you going to do about it?_ ”

“So what _are_ we going to do about it?”

“Complain? It’s the British thing to do. That and drink tea.”

The man sighed. “I could go for some tea right now.”

“Do you drink a lot of tea?”

“I do since I got here. Drinking their version of coffee is too depressing.”

“That’s actually why I drink coffee. I find their version of tea too depressing.”

The man laughed. Bodhi was definitely beating Douglas Adams.

“Hey, maybe we should go to a café and be mutually depressed.” Aaaand there was strike three. Why didn’t Bodhi quit while he was ahead?

“That sounds wonderful. I’ll need to head home for my winter coat first, though. You know, for the air conditioning.”

Bodhi grinned, a little nervous. Was this conversation actually going well, or was the man just humoring him? “I’m Bodhi, by the way. But everyone just calls me Rook.”

“Rook?”

“It’s my surname. And apparently, the way I talk with my hands reminds people of bird wings.”

Yet another smile.

“How about you?”

Again, that weird sensation, like a layer of plexiglass had been put between them, but the face remained friendly… or friendly-seeming. “You can call me Alex.”

“Is Alex your real name, or just what you tell people when you’re sick of mispronunciation?”

“I got tired of Lady Gaga references. For a while, I just thought everyone at work had a stutter.” Alex – Alejandro? – paused. “Is that why you tell people to call you Rook?”

“Yeah. I get sick of people accidentally calling me Body or Bootie. One guy even called me Buddha. I mean, he wasn’t even trying, you know?”

“So… Bodhi? Am I saying it right?” The ‘d’ came out softened, and Bodhi tried very hard not to think about the particular articulation of this man’s tongue to make that sound. He tried very hard not to think about that particular tongue in general. Then he remembered that the man had asked him a question.

“Y-yeah. You’re saying it fine.” He was brought out of his haze of embarrassment by the arrival of the number twelve bus. His heart sank as he thought about how it marked the end of their conversation. Then he remember that they were going on the same bus. “After you,” he said, hoping that it sounded like a humorous play on gallantry, and not a pathetic attempt to sneak a look at Alex/Alejandro’s butt. Which hadn’t even occurred to him to do until his subconscious accused him of it. He recovered in time to get on the bus and swipe his school ID that gave him free rides. He noticed that the other man paid his fare, even though he’d said that he worked at the university. “So, first time reading The Hitchhiker’s Guide?”

“Yeah. It’s different than what I expected.”

“How so?”

“A lot less informative. I didn’t realize it was going to be a book _about_ the guide, instead of the guide itself.” He looked completely serious. Not even a glint in his eye. Either he was very good at deadpan, or he was very very weird.

“Yeah, it’s like how The Neverending Story is only about 400 pages. I mean, it’s long for a kids’ book, but still. Hardly never-ending.”

Probably-Alejandro nodded. “So, tell me about yourself,” he said in a voice that sounded almost calculatedly friendly. But surely Bodhi was just being paranoid. Surely Bodhi was suave enough that he could actually be interesting to Gorgeous Sci-Fi-Reading Strangers.

“Not much to tell. Born in London. Wanted to be a pilot, but saw no future in it, so I studied aerospace engineering. Got my Masters. Still wanted to be a pilot, still couldn’t pass the practical exams. The instructor kept muttering distracting things, and it made me flustered. He claimed it was just what I’d be hearing from my passengers anyway, but it didn’t help.”

“When you say distracting…”

“Racist. That’s what I get for being Asian and wanting to fly airplanes.”

“I thought you were English? Isn’t that in Europe?”

Bodhi rolled his eyes. The joke didn’t even merit a groan, even from someone that attractive. Unless it wasn’t a joke, and he really _did_ take things that literally. “Anyway, I couldn’t get my license, so I decided to see the world through my studies. Which was how I ended up at O_______ this past September, still smarting from Brexit, and completely unprepared for Great Again America.”

The other man nodded. It looked as though he was shuffling pieces of information around in his head, cross-referencing Brexit with Trump and the geographic location of England. No, Bodhi was definitely imagining it. No one was that out of it, unless they had been living on another planet for the last five to ten years.

What if he _had_ been living on another planet?

No, ridiculous. Bodhi was among the nerdiest of nerds, but even he did not believe that the beautiful, if confusing, man on the bus with him was an extraterrestrial. His eyebrows were far too perfect for that. Maybe a robot though? A robot specifically designed to distract hapless strangers with his perfect eyebrows, and then pump them for state secrets? Again, ridiculous. They would have programmed a robot to recognize accents, and once he started speaking, no one would mistake Bodhi for American, US-American or otherwise. Also, who would plant a robot reading sci-fi? It would be too obvious. At least he hadn’t been reading I, Robot.

“So. Engineering at O________. I don’t suppose you had any classes with Doctor Erso?”

Bodhi froze. How on Earth would this man know about Doctor Erso? What was his background anyway? He still hadn’t said what his job was, he could be anything from IT to Professor Emeritus. “He was my advisor. He’s the one who told me to transfer here.”

“Didn’t get along?”

“No, we got along great. It was… complicated.”

“Ah. Got along _too_ well.”

“No! Nothing like that! If anything, he was like a father figure to me. He even said I’d be around the same age as his daughter.”

“What was she like, his daughter?”

“I don’t know. Never met her. She was put up for foster care as a kid, and then she ended up running away as a teenager, so he hadn’t seen her since she was eight.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, he got all misty-eyed every time he talked about her. Called her _Stardust._ Anyway, he sent me here with a flash-drive and instructions to deliver it to this old colleague of his, Doctor Guerrera. I guess I should say Ex-Doctor Guerrera. I think he lost his titles when the Uni fired him. Apparently, he was too radical for the administration’s liking. That, and slightly unhinged.” Bodhi realized that the other man had stiffened as soon as Bodhi had mentioned Guerrera’s name, and hadn’t moved since.

“Not… _Saul_ Guerrera?” he asked in a choked voice.

“That’s the one. Do you know him?”

A tense nod.

“Huh, what are the odds? Anyway, it looks like he’s gone into hiding – I’ve been here for weeks, and I _finally_ got an address for him. Maybe the Uni wasn’t wrong about him being unhinged. But that’s where I’m heading now.”

Suddenly, the man grabbed Bodhi and stared intently into his eyes. “Don’t go.”

Bodhi had been hoping his first physical contact with this man would be under slightly different circumstances. “Um, ok, why?”

“He _is_ unhinged. Completely. He’s broken with the U. Broken with reality. And he’s dangerous.”

“Listen Ale- _Alex_ ,” Bodhi just barely stopped himself from saying _Alejandro_ and accidentally channeled Lady Gaga. “I don’t know you. I’m not even sure I know your real name. Why should I trust a complete stranger over a professor I worked with for almost a year, no matter how dreamy your eyes are?”

“Maybe Doctor Erso doesn’t know how much Guerrera has changed in the last few years. He’s… Wait. You think my eyes are dreamy?”

“No. Of course not. I would never say something that stupid. What do you mean by _changed_?”

“He learned too much, too quickly. It broke him. And now all he wants is revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“I’ve said too much already. Give me the flash-drive.”

“Are you serious? No!”

“Give it to me!” The man’s eyes were insistent, pleading. “I’ve seen what happens to people who work with him. It’s not pretty. They want to change the world, but they get so lost in tangential battles that they get themselves killed before they can make any real difference. I – I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“Why not? You don’t even know me.”

“I know that you’re a good man. I can tell these things. I’ve been trained to. And you… you may or may not have dreamy eyes too.”

“This is ridiculous. Anyway, this is my stop. Nice to meet you, _Alex_. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Bodhi pulled the cord to request a stop, and stood up. The other man stood up with him.

“If I can’t stop you, at least I’m going with you. I’m telling you, Guerrera is bad news. And he’s making the rest of us look bad.”

“The rest of who exactly?” Bodhi asked as he climbed off the bus. He gave a little wave to the driver and mouthed _Thank you!_ He noticed that his companion waved and smiled at the driver as he stepped down himself. Bodhi started walking towards Guerrera’s house, and the other man followed him.

“I… I really can’t tell you more, not here. But… I’ve been looking for you, Bodhi Rook. _The Pilot_ they call you. _The Defector_. You carry some very important information from Doctor Erso, information that could be very dangerous in the wrong hands. Trust me, Saul Guerrera is definitely the wrong hands. Not as bad as the Academic Empire, but still, pretty bad.”

“The Academic Empire? Who even talks like that? And _you’re_ accusing _Guerrera_ of being unhinged?”

“There’s no difference between one university and another. They’re all linked. They claim they’re bringing peace to the galaxy, but all they do is buy up real estate and drive up the rent prices, until no one can afford to live anywhere anymore.”

“Yes, but they also do some very important research, and… Wait. Galaxy?”

“I didn’t say that. I said world. Or country. One of the two.”

“Where are you from, again?”

“DF. Mexico City. México.”

“Where are you _really_ from?” Bodhi hated himself for asking that particular question, but he really did mean it literally. This guy was clearly from another planet. No one used so many Mexican-isms with a foreigner unless they were trying to convince them of something. It was like an amateur actor trying out for “Mexican at the Bus Stop #3”.

“Look, I can’t tell you more until we are somewhere safe. And Guerrera’s cave is _not safe._ ”

“Cave? It’s a house on the Old West Side. Look, I don’t know who you are, or what your deal is, but Doctor Erso entrusted me with a mission, and I take it very seriously. You can come with me if you really want to, but I’m definitely going.”

The other man just shook his head, looking resigned. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. But I’ll try to keep you safe.”

 

 

 

Twenty minutes later, Bodhi and probably-not-really-named-Alex were running from The Cave, an unhinged ex-professor shouting “Save the Rebellion! Save the Dream!” from the doorway. Bodhi was coughing, wondering if he’d ever get the smell of so much weed off of his clothes and backpack. They got back to the bus-stop just as the next bus was approaching, and frantically waved it down. A young woman, around Bodhi’s age, caught up with them just as the bus stopped, and she jumped on after them. The driver gave them all an odd look as they paid their fare, probably due to the unmistakable smell and the wild look in their eyes.

“Where are you all coming from?” he asked them, his expression dripping with disdain.

“Um… meeting with an old professor,” Bodhi said half-truthfully.

The driver shook his head. “I find that answer vague and unconvincing.”

Bodhi just hoped that the smell wasn’t strong enough to get everyone in the bus high. He headed for a seat in the back, and was followed by the strange man and the stranger woman.

“You were right,” Bodhi told the other man. “Guerrera is definitely unhinged.”

“I told you. And now he has the flash-drive. We’re doomed.”

“You mean this flash-drive?” The young woman pulled a small orange stick out of her pocket.

“How did you get that?” the possible extraterrestrial asked with a mix of shock and relief.

“You left it on the table. You make terrible spies.”

“I’m not a spy,” Bodhi replied. The other man said nothing. “Who are you, anyway?”

“You can call me Liana Hallik.”

“I don’t want to call you Liana Hallik. I want to know your real name.”

“I can’t tell you more until we’re –”

“ _Somewhere safe_ ,” Bodhi interrupted impatiently. “I know, I know, this guy who may or may not be called Alejandro keeps telling me that.”

“Alejandro?” not-Liana asked, giving the mystery man a once-over. And now that Bodhi saw her in profile…

“You know, you look kind of like my old professor, Doctor Erso. Something in your eyes.”

“Jyn Erso,” not-Alejandro whispered, in awe.

“Don’t say that name out loud!” the young Erso hissed. “We need to go…”

“Somewhere safe,” Bodhi interrupted.

“Right,” not-Alex-either said. “I know just the place. But you –” he turned to Bodhi. “You’ve done enough. You’ve fulfilled your mission. You go home, forget everything you’ve seen and heard, maybe get an expensive excuse-for-a-coffee.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m in it now, whatever _it_ is.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to give up the life you’ve known so far?”

“Sure. I don’t have anything better to do. I’m never getting my piloting license, and I’m sick of academia.”

“I think we could get you some flight training. We could use people like you. People like _you –_ ” he turned to Jyn. “Well, I can’t say that I trust you, but I’d rather have you with me than against me. And you might be able to get us to your father. We need to get him out of the Academic Empire before he goes Full Guerrera. Or worse. Becomes one of Them.”

“I haven’t seen my father in over ten years,” Jyn said softly. “Ever since he disappeared and they put me in foster care. I never stopped thinking about him." She sighed. "They stuck me with a terrible foster family, by the way. Guerrera’s an ex-hippy of the worst degree. I’m pretty sure all those fumes stunted my growth.” Bodhi tactfully did not comment on her height.

“Speaking of which,” he said. “I think I need to go home and take a shower. Where can I meet up with you?”

“I can’t tell you the address,” the spy told him. “But I can give you a number to call, and I’ll meet you somewhere.” He scribbled a number on a slip of paper and handed it to Bodhi.

“Thanks. And what’s your name? Really? I can’t keep thinking of you as maybe-Alejandro or definitely-not-Alex.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just take a shower and give me a call. Oh, and Bodhi? Bodhi, when you call me, you can call me Al.”

**Author's Note:**

> Paul Simon was not harmed in the writing of this fic.


End file.
